


Before the Dawn

by holyfant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don't understand why he doesn't –” John started, then stopped.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” Mary said, eyes sharp and bright despite the fatigue in her voice. “You know why.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Old_Grimalkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Old_Grimalkin/gifts).



> For Oldgrimalkin's request on tumblr, which was a hurt/comfort drabble. I hope you enjoy this, oldgrimalkin, though I'm afraid this is rather more hurt than comfort...
> 
> Unbeta'ed.

With some difficulty, Mary struggled upright in bed to click on her bedside lamp while John, squinting, read Sherlock's text. He only needed to look at her; her expression changed and she said: “Well, what are you waiting for? Go and help him!”

 

John hardly had the presence of mind to button his shirt up the correct way. His hands trembled a little, and his head was buzzing, a sharp edge of worry cutting through the wool of his sleepy brain. “I don't understand why he doesn't –” he started, then stopped.

 

“Oh, come on,” Mary said, eyes sharp and bright despite the fatigue in her voice. “You know why.”

 

She stood in the doorway of their flat, her belly parting the flaps of her dressing gown, and watched him thunder down the stairs.

 

-

 

John had to cut into the sleeves of Sherlock's stained shirt with a pair of scissors in order to get the fabric out of the bloody mess of the cut. Sherlock sat on the damp floor of the bathroom, head lolled back against the frosted glass of the shower door. He hardly even winced when John pulled the sleeve out of the wound.

 

John cleared his throat. “You'll need a couple of stitches for that one, I reckon. I'll do it for you; it's not too bad. Here, press this towel against it for now.”

 

Sherlock nodded, and took the towel without comment. He put it against the cut, and then closed his eyes. His hair was plastered to his forehead in tacky, bloody tendrils. Underneath that his skin was pale as a ghost.

 

John balanced on his heels for a moment longer, looking at his friend, who didn't look back. With a small huff of effort he got to his feet to get his first aid kit, but halfway out of the door he turned around.

 

“Look, you could've –” John stopped, realised he was pointing the scissors at Sherlock, and made himself lower them. “You could've called _before_ you got yourself slashed into bits.”

 

Sherlock made a non-committal sound. He didn't open his eyes. Then he said: “Painkillers in the top drawer.”

 

John sucked on his cheek, didn't ask why Sherlock had moved them since John had left 221b, and went into the kitchen to fetch them. He elected to ignore for the moment the fact that there were rather a lot of empty pill packets in the drawer.

 

He went back into the bathroom with the pills, his kit and a glass of water for Sherlock.

 

“Take two,” he said as he handed them over. Sherlock did as he was told with not so much as a sound of protest. John felt a little uncomfortable watching him; he looked more tired than John had ever seen him. Or maybe tired wasn't the word, he looked... apathetic. John's eyes fastened involuntarily onto the bob of Sherlock's adam's apple as he swallowed the painkillers, and then he shook himself and looked away. The silence between them was a little odd, in the grey gloom of 221b's bathroom.

 

Sherlock set the glass down with exaggerated care. “All right,” he said. “Go on ahead, doctor.”

 

John set to work cautiously, letting the familiar actions take over his conscious thought. He cleaned the cuts and scrapes, cleared them of dirt, desinfected them carefully, and finally got out his sterilised needle and thread to stitch shut the one slightly more serious cut on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock didn't move throughout it all, but John could feel the tension in his body – which was peculiar, since this ritual of caring and healing had always been one of the few moments that John could recall that Sherlock was usually mellow and pliant, coming down from whatever adrenaline high it was that had earned him the injuries.

 

“How's your head?”

 

“Fine.”

 

John leaned in and swept Sherlock's dirty fringe away to assess the small head wound again. He gently touched a finger to the skin right next to it. “Is it throbbing? Do you feel dizzy?”

 

“I – no,” Sherlock said hoarsely. John's eyes clicked from the wound down to Sherlock's face, and he was a little surprised at the expression he found there: pinched and flinching, as though Sherlock was suddenly in pain.

 

“I'm sorry, does that hurt?”

 

“A little,” Sherlock said, and he sounded weirdly strangled.

 

John took his hand away from Sherlock's forehead and leaned back. “Look, Sherlock,” he said. “Are you – I mean... are you okay?”

 

“Fine now, thanks to you,” Sherlock said, and even smiled a little, but he only held eye contact with John for a second before dropping his gaze.

 

“Are you sure?” John said, frowning.

 

Sherlock sat up, wincing a little. “Yes, I'm sure, John. Thanks for coming over, I'm... much obliged. You can go home, I'll be all right.”

 

“Yeah,” John said, and got to his feet. “But – er – you know you can ask this of me, yeah? It's not because... that I can't...” he trailed off a little awkwardly, and gestured vaguely around him.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I know.” He tried to get up, but only half managed it – John grabbed him by the biceps and hauled him further upright.

 

“There you are, steady,” John said as he nudged his shoulder under Sherlock's armpit to support him. “I thought my putting-you-to-bed days were over, didn't you?”

 

Sherlock made a small sound that seemed to be a laugh. “I did,” he said, and leaned his weight on John. John smiled as they shuffled out of the bathroom with some difficulty – it felt so familiar, this, that he couldn't help a rush of affection for Sherlock, warm in his chest.

 

In Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock dropped onto his bed with a groan.

 

“How long has it been since you've actually slept?” John asked with some amusement as Sherlock all but keeled over.

 

“Can't remember,” Sherlock said as he rolled onto his side, pushing his face into his pillow.

 

“You're such an idiot,” John said affectionately. “How often have I told you –”

 

“Gnrf,” Sherlock said, and snuggled deeper into his pillow.

 

“At least get under the covers,” John said. “And take your clothes off.”

 

“Mmno.”

 

“Oh come on, you're going to get blood all over your fancy sheets, sleeping like that.”

 

“Don't care,” Sherlock said, but John stepped up to the bed, put one knee on it and effectively rolled Sherlock over with a hand on his shoulder. He started undoing the buttons of Sherlock's ruined shirt.

 

Immediately, Sherlock's body went rigid, tensing noticeably under John's hand.

 

“John, please,” Sherlock said, and he brought up a hand to cover his eyes. “Please don't.”

 

“I'm just trying to –”

 

“ _Please_.” There was something so insistent about Sherlock's tone that John took his hands away from Sherlock's shirt. He stood for a moment, heart in his throat, and looked down on his friend in his dirty, cut-up shirt.

 

“Sherlock,” he said uncertainly, and then stopped, not knowing what he wanted to say. Sherlock said nothing, but sucked in a deep breath, and then took his hand away from his eyes. His face when he looked up at John was blank and hard to read.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm just – tired,” he said, voice flat.

 

“Yeah, all right,” John said automatically. “I'll, er, I'll be going then, all right?” He waited for any acknowledgement, but Sherlock just looked up at him without expression. “Text me in the morning to let me know how you feel, okay.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I'll do that.”

 

“Okay,” John said, and walked over to Sherlock's bedroom door. “Talk to you then.”

 

“Talk to you then,” Sherlock echoed tonelessly as John stepped out of his room.

 

-

 

“How was he?” Mary mumbled sleepily as John rolled back into bed.

 

John lay quietly next to her for a long moment. In his temples, he could feel the beginning pounding of a headache. _I honestly don't know_ , he thought. “Fine,” he eventually said, on a sigh. “I think.”

 

She didn't respond. Her breathing was even and deep.

 


End file.
